


It Will Come Back

by 0hHeyThereBigBadWolf



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Do Not Re-Post To Another Site, Fuck Prophecy, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, If The Canon Does Not Spark Joy Throw It Out, Kilgharrah? Who's That?, M/M, No Beta We Die Like Everyone On The Show (Except Merlin), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Screw Destiny, Season Five Whomst?, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:20:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25627360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf/pseuds/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf
Summary: Mordred doesn't know what to make of Emrys anymore. He really doesn't. He's known the man for weeks, months now, and he still doesn't understand how it came to be that Emrys has him pinned against the wall of an empty chamber with his tongue in Mordred's mouth.(Alternatively, five times Mordred slept with Emrys and the one time they actually slept together.)
Relationships: Merlin/Mordred (Merlin)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 261





	It Will Come Back

Mordred doesn't know what to make of Emrys anymore.

When he was a boy, he had fanciful imaginings of a great, mighty figure with awesome power; it had been a shock to come face-to-face with a youth only a handful of years older than him, uncertain and kind. When they met again soon after, he had been angry and hurt when Emrys had tried to kill him, albeit indirectly, and had made his promise not to forgive or forget with childish fervor. He had grown past it with the years, understanding more of the world and the choices one had to make in it. When they had met again in the forests, Emrys had been a firestorm bottled, a maelstrom of power kept on tight leash behind mental shields so strong not even the most experienced mindmage could hope to break them, even with anger and fear oozing out like infected blood from a wound.

And now he is in Camelot, a knight sworn in service to the Once and Future King, and he _still_ doesn't understand Emrys because Emrys has him pinned against the wall of an empty chamber with his tongue in Mordred's mouth.

Mordred clutches at the other man's sides, faded jacket bunched up in his hands, unable to do much other than hold on and press back into the kiss as best he can. Want pierces through him like a lance, a ribbon of molten gold uncoiling, turning his bones to molten fire and shaping his body to the form of desire. When Emrys finally breaks away from him, Mordred is left gasping, still gripping his jacket; if he hadn't been pressed to the wall, he might've swayed on his feet, unsteady as he feels.

Emrys stares at him, pupils blown wide and mouth swollen, one hand resting lightly at the base of Mordred's throat, the other on his waist. Always standing beside Arthur and the other knights, it's easy to mistake Emrys for being smaller than he actually is. Except he isn't. Mordred is very much aware that Emrys is taller than he is, broader through the shoulders, and even if he does run more towards wiry, he's all muscle, whipcord lean. To say nothing at all of the magic that roils around him, breathing off him like heat from an open oven.

Mordred opens his mouth to say…something, surely, but before he can form the words, Emrys's eyes glint, and then he slides down, down, down, and Mordred slams his head back against the wall hard enough to hurt, clapping a hand over his own mouth.

Emrys braces one arm across his hips to keep him still. The other curls snugly around the base of him, which is a good thing because Mordred is certain he would've spent like a green lad if he hadn't. He clenches his hands into fists, nails biting sharply into his palms to keep from seizing hold of Emrys's hair as the other man plays his mouth over the length of him, all light suction and little kitten licks, teasing and wonderful. He puts his head back to the wall and stares at the ceiling, trying to breathe and keep his legs under him at the same time, and he almost manages, right up to the point when Emrys raises up slightly and takes the entirety of Mordred into his mouth, sucking deep and hard. Climax breaks over him in a wave so powerful his vision is overcome with a glittering darkness, and his control washes away with it like a twig in a flood.

"Em- _rys,"_ he gasps, his voice cracking halfway through as his magic spills out of him.

Emrys's magic suddenly envelops the room, and Mordred's power crashes against it, breaking like a wave against a cliffside, keeping it contained to the room when it would've spilled outwards through the entire corridor and every chamber along it. So much magic in such a small space makes the air feel thicker than it ought to be, slithering down into his lungs as he gasps for breath, trembling all over, feeling like he's been laid open to the bone.

Emrys pulls off with a soft, obscene sound, mouth red and swollen, and sits back on his heels, raising eyes to Mordred. "At least warn me before you do that," he rasps out.

He hadn't meant to. He's not lost control of himself like that since he first became a man. Then again, no one has ever done _that_ with their tongue, either. "Sorry." His knees aren't quite so solid beneath him anymore, and he slides down the wall to the floor, ending up almost halfway in Emrys's lap. Once he's sitting, he finds it a little easier to catch his breath and find his words again. "Do you want me to…?" He turns his gaze downwards, raking over Emrys and stopping southward of his belt, breath coming slightly faster. It is only fair, of course. Feeling boneless in the aftermath of pleasure, he doesn't even remember why he was so confused in the first place.

"No," Emrys replies, and Mordred feels an unexpected twinge of disappointment. But that amber-tinged gaze washes over him like a physical touch, a velvety glove stroking his skin without hesitance. "I'd prefer we get to a bed first."

Bed. Goddess preserve him. Mordred feels his magic, curled lazily against Emrys's still-standing shields, give a shiver of excitement, echoing the responsive twitch in his body. Still, he gives a small laugh and says, "I can't feel my legs below the knee at the moment, so that may present an issue."

Emrys only smiles, a slow spread of white teeth like the gleam of fangs in a dark wood. "Then we shan't go far. On your feet," he orders, does not ask, _orders;_ it's fearfully impressive, how a man on his knees can still carry such command _._

A table does just as well for a bed on short notice. And leaning over it, Mordred doesn't even have to worry about his knees.

* * *

"I swear on the Goddess Herself that one day, one day, I am going to tell Arthur about all the absolute _shite_ I have gone through for the sake of this thrice-damned kingdom, and he is going to give me a sodding _medal of valour,"_ Emrys snaps as he kneels on the riverbank, leant over to scrub the blood out of his hair.

Mordred chuckles, then winces as he pries what he thinks is a piece of jawbone from his hair, unintentionally taking more than a few strands out with it. "Will you pin it to your scarf and wear it even you're mucking out stables?" he asks.

"Yes!" Emrys lifts his head, looking murderously demented, his face streaked with blood, hair plastered down and dripping water, clothes clotted with gore. "I will wear it every day and polish it every time I have to polish that _twat's_ armour, polish it until I can see my _face_ in it, and I will _sleep_ with it under my _pillow!"_

Mordred chortles and ducks his head in the river, trying to rinse some of the blood out. "It will look very fine, I'm certain. Though you might consider taking it off the next time we have to deal with necrophages."

"I want to find whoever wrote that book and kick them in the bollocks. It is worth mentioning that necrophages, upon being vanquished, _explode."_ Emrys looks down at himself and groans. "I have four tunics. _Four._ And now, I have three, because _this_ smell is _never_ going to come out." Scowling, he yanks off his scarf and tosses it aside, then peels his tunic up and off, flinging it away.

Mordred stills.

Scars. Emrys is covered in scars. On every part of him, his chest and back and arms and sides, running down to vanish beneath his trousers. Cuts and burns, claws and teeth, the peculiar shiny scars that can only come from magic, hex tracks and curse marks. Some are fresher, still pink and soft, but others are older, paling to white.

"Not so lovely to look at, am I?" comes the dry voice, and Mordred yanks his gaze up to see Emrys staring back at him, a wry smile twisting his mouth. "Medal of valour."

"Are all of those from…this?" Mordred asks, sketching a gesture over his shoulder towards the welter of gore and sludge where they had dispelled the necrophages.

Emrys spreads his arms slightly and leans from the waist, the closest approximation of a bow he can make whilst sitting, and somehow, he manages to make the gesture perfectly sarcastic. "I protect and serve."

Mordred opens his mouth, then closes it again. Instead, he looks his fill, tracing over the scars with his eyes, trying to imagine what caused them. When he was younger, he would sometimes imagine Emrys as a warrior, covered with woad tattoos like the war-mages of old, but this…this is more. Moving closer, he reaches for one of the nearer scars, a set of claw marks that trisect a hex track, but Emrys catches his hand before he can touch. "Hardly fair," he murmurs, low and intent.

He hesitates. What had happened after the knighting ceremony…it could be looked over, passed off as some bizarre incident that wouldn't be repeated, like a starfall. But this…this is seduction, and he has an awful feeling about the purpose behind it, what kind of convoluted game is being acted out here, with him as a piece and not a player.

Emrys strokes the inside of his wrist with a thumb.

Withdrawing his arm, Mordred pulls the laces of his tunic loose and draws it off over his head. Emrys is right—the smell won't come out, no point in keeping it any longer. Despite the warmth of the air, a shiver plays out over his skin at the sudden exposure. Reaching out again, recklessly brave, he presses his hand to the curse mark in the middle of Emrys's chest, a ragged starburst of bruise-coloured skin. It feels smooth, waxy the way some burns are, and it is warm under his hand.

Emrys hisses at him like a scalded cat and surges forward, tumbling Mordred over onto his back.

Mordred can still smell the off-right scent of necrophage blood, and there is a bite on his arm that will need tending, and he is fairly certain there is a piece of bone jabbing him in the back, but he doesn't care. Emrys kisses him, teeth and tongue and force, and Mordred surrenders to it, opening his mouth and letting himself be borne down onto the bank. The ground is damp and muddy under his back, a sharp contrast to the heat of the other man's body above him. A strangled whine of protest escapes him when Emrys rises up off him, pulling away; however, he only undoes his belt, then his laces, shoving his breeches and smallclothes down. Gasping, Mordred hastily does the same, wriggling against the muddy bank.

They are still both strung too tightly to manage anything more than eager rutting, like a pair of overeager boys rolling in a haystack, but it is still wonderful, perfect, glorious, slick skin riding against each other. Mordred clutches at Emrys's shoulder blades, digging fingers into the flexing muscle of his back, moaning and gasping and shuddering helplessly. It is maddening, how he can get such pleasure from this alone, with a man he still doesn't know _likes_ him at all, more pleasure than he's ever felt with former bedmates. A choked whimper slips from him when he comes, staring up at the sky whilst Emrys thrusts against him once, twice, thrice more, then shudders to a halt, groaning in Mordred's ear.

Emrys rolls off him onto the bank with a sigh, and for a moment, they both lay there panting, pulses settling. Arching his back, Mordred reaches under himself and finally pries away the sharp bit of whatever that had been jabbing him. He was right, it was a piece of bone; he'll have a bruise there for certain. He flings it towards the river, hearing the small splash of it, then sighs. "We probably should just take a swim," he muses aloud. Their little wash-up has been rendered entirely redundant now.

"Mm, probably."

He turns his head to look at Emrys just as the other sorcerer turns to look at him. Mordred can't help but smile a little; they look depraved, lying bruised and scratched half-dressed on a riverbank covered in mud, blood, and seed. A heartbeat of quiet, and then they're both laughing, laughing the way only people who haven't truly laughed in a long time can laugh, until sides hurt and eyes water.

Emrys stands up with a groan, holding his breeches up with one hand, and he proffers the other to Mordred. "Come on."

Surprised, Mordred accepts the hand and lets himself be pulled up.

When they finally do make their way back to Camelot, still damp and smelling faintly of necrophages, Mordred realises too late that he has forgotten to heal the scratches on his arms and ends up cornered by Gwaine, evading questions as to how he earned them.

Emrys, the smug bastard, only grins.

* * *

"If you drown yourself, I'm not reviving you."

The words bring Mordred sharply back to wakefulness, water splashing softly when he startles. "I wasn't sleeping."

Emrys arches a brow at him. "Of course not. You were simply praying, then?"

He's not going to answer that. "What happened?" Mordred asks, gripping the edges of the tub and pulling himself a little more upright. He is also going to ignore the fact that he is alone in his chambers with Emrys. And naked.

"What do you remember?" Emrys moves to light another candle, though he doesn't use a taper and striking paper, only his fingertips.

"I was in the final match of the tourney," he says slowly. The steam simultaneously loosens the ache in his muscles, makes the back of his head throb, and sends nausea curling through his stomach. "I disarmed that last knight…did he hit me?" He recalls disarming his last opponent, turning towards the king's box in the stands, a white-hot starburst of pain in his skull, glittering darkness, and a vague, hazy recollection of being escorted back to his chambers and out of his clothes.

"He did, and he has been disqualified and sent away in disgrace. You are tourney champion. You have bragging rights up until the next one. I told Arthur to wait to give you your reward until I was certain your brains weren't leaking out of your ears," Emrys replies with a smile, circling around the tub to stand behind Mordred. "Sit forward a bit."

He keeps hold of the sides, feeling strangely off-balanced despite being seated, and he can't help but to make a face as Emrys slides gentle, seeking fingers through his hair, feeling along his nape. A stinging pain makes him jerk forward, water sloshing. "Ow!"

"Be still. _Þurhhæle."_

Blessed coolness spreads across Mordred's scalp like cold water trickling through his hair, taking away the throb and the nausea, and he sighs in relief, sitting back once more. "Who was he, by the way? The knight who hit me?"

There's a smile in Emrys's voice, a faint chuckle lacing his words as he replies, "Sir William of Deira."

"Why is that funny?"

"I'll tell you another time."

Mordred starts to turn to look at him, but he freezes halfway through the motion as Emrys steps back around the tub, tall and gorgeous and mother-naked. "You—wh-what are you—?"

Emrys puts a hand on the side of the tub for balance as he steps into the water, easing himself down so he's straddling Mordred, knees pressed tight between his hips and the sides of the tub. "You're tourney champion. You've earnt the favour of the court, hm?" he prompts with a smile, easing his arms around Mordred's neck, leaning forward so they're pressed chest-to-chest.

The favour of the court usually expresses itself in the form of gifts, but this certainly outdoes all of them. Mordred gives brief thought to the stern conversation he'd had with himself about not playing into whatever game is being played, not happily assisting in his own seduction…and it dissipates like a curl of steam as Emrys shifts closer, pressed hard and hot along his hip beneath the water. He is only a man after all, and mortal for it. He finally releases his grip on the tub and slides his arms around Emrys's body, smoothing both hands up his back. For all his scars, his skin is soft and supple as a child's, like silk.

Lips curling up, Emrys lowers his head and turns attention to Mordred's neck, nibbling and licking and sucking; Mordred prays he won't leave a mark and devoutly hopes he does.

Water slops over the edge of the tub as they shift against one another, moving until they find an angle that works. It makes the muscles in his back protest, but it's a manageable discomfort, no matter. At the next roll of Emrys's hips, however, Mordred can't quite help but twitch away, fresh bruises making themselves pointedly known. "I-I—not that I'm not _enjoying_ this, but I'm not exactly at my best at the moment, so just so I know how much anxiety I need to feel, you'll not kill me if I don't please you, will you?" he asks breathlessly as Emrys sucks at the soft spot under his ear, drawing the skin between his teeth. "Or will you be merciful enough to just maim me a bit?"

Emrys's head lifts, eyes flickering from blue to gold and back again, like fast-moving sunlight playing over deep water. "I won't harm you, Mordred," he says, and his voice is husky, rasping the way some men's voices do when the excitement runs deep. His mouth curves up, unexpectedly playful. "I'll just think less of you forever."

"So you admit you think _something_ of me?" Mordred prompts, smiling back.

"I do."

"Daresay that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

He meant it as a jest, but Emrys's smile fades around the edges. There's so many emotions flickering across his gaze that Mordred can't hope to read them all, still shored up behind his shields, vast as the White Cliffs. "Is it?" he murmurs, softer now.

Mordred begins to say something, but Emrys frames his face with both hands and kisses him again. Energy, cool and bright and sweet, spills down his throat, singing in his blood and humming in his bones, making his heart swell in his chest as though it would break free and take flight. He breaks away gasping, and he doesn't have to look down at himself to see that his bruises have healed, his scrapes and cuts closed.

The next kiss is only a kiss, mortal and warm, and the accompanying movement of his hips brings a groan from Mordred's throat, his head falling back against the rim of the tub. It had felt good before, but now, with his body still humming like a plucked harpstring from the vibrant energy, it's almost an unbearable pleasure. He curls his hands around the sharp bones of Emrys's hips, digging his fingers in hard, not certain if he wants to pull him closer or shove him away.

"Let go," Emrys murmurs into his neck, so low it's more vibration than sound. "Let go."

Mordred presses his mouth to the sharp line of Emrys's collarbone, tasting skin and water and soap, and rakes his teeth lightly over the warm flesh. "You first."

For a heartbeat, there's silence, and then…magic breathes through the room, filling it up like water in the tub, curling around them both.

They're late for the feast, and Mordred's hair is still damp when he takes his seat with the other knights.

* * *

Arthur chooses him for long patrol to the Mercian border.

Mordred is almost giddy when he thinks about it. Long patrol is usually reserved for more experienced knights, and for him to be permitted to go within his first year of knighthood is a great honour. At the same time, however, he is almost loath to go. The long patrol will be gone for most of the month, a full fortnight at the absolute least, and he won't see Emrys.

It doesn't surprise him in the least that the night before he is due to leave, Emrys comes to his chambers. He doesn't knock, never does, stepping in and closing the door behind him, setting the bar in place. He leans back against the door a moment, simply gazing across the way at him with eyes like the bottom of the sea.

Mordred gazes back, reminding himself again that he ought to refuse, that he is playing with something more dangerous than fire, that it's likely he's only being used as a convenient bedwarmer…yet he finds himself moving over to make room in the bed, lifting the edge of the blankets.

Emrys's smile is small, but genuine in its warmth.

It's easier like this, in the dark and the quiet, to lose themselves to it, to the inexorable blood-tide of desire—quickening pulses and salt-slickness, gasping breaths and aching tenderness. As much as he enjoys it, he has to deny Emrys this time, not wanting to try riding after being ridden himself. Instead, he finally returns the favour given to him after the knighting ceremony, sliding beneath the blankets to take Emrys into his mouth, losing himself to his task until there's nothing but the darkness beneath the blanket, the fingers curled in his hair, the soft, hitching sounds gasped out above him, the bitter salt on his tongue.

Emrys doesn't leave immediately after, though Mordred can tell he isn't asleep, stretched out facing the wall, his back to Mordred. It's almost like the most intense craven-wager— _I still don't trust you, so I'll give you my back with your breath on my neck to prove I'm not afraid of you._ Still, he lets himself doze, drowsy in the aftermath of pleasure, and lets himself imagine they're no different than any other lovers after a farewell tryst.

When the candle finally burns down to the mark, Mordred gives a faint sigh before easing out of the bed. He picks out his clothes from the scattered mess on the floor and dresses as quietly and quickly as he can, considering the only light is fading moonlight coming through the windows. Staring at the metallic heap of his maille and kit, he decides to handle it later and just bundles it up in one arm before he steps over to the bedside. Emrys is still stretched out on his belly facing the wall, the sheets twisted around his waist. The smooth, supple curve of his back, barely visible in the low light, makes Mordred's mouth dry.

_[Emrys,]_ he thinks, then decides it perhaps it isn't the wisest idea to try and wake him mentally. "Emrys."

He makes a drowsy nose in his throat, twisting halfway over onto his back. "Mm?" One eye opens to barely a slit.

"I have to go. Arthur wants us gone early so we make the borders before dusk."

"Mm."

"We'll be back in a fortnight, perhaps a few days more," he says, which Emrys probably already knows, then clears his throat. "We'll be in the Northern Plains. If you need to find me for…anything."

Emrys smiles, eyes closed again, and reaches out to pat him on the thigh. "I can find you anywhere you go."

"That isn't threatening at all, thank you," he murmurs, half to himself. On a sudden surge of impulse, he bends at the waist, leaning over the bed. "Will you do something awful to me if I kiss you goodbye?"

Emrys's smile warms, or at least, he wants to believe it does. "No."

So Mordred does, and Emrys kisses him back with a hand under his jaw.

It makes it all the harder for Mordred to withdraw, but he does, and he makes himself leave, heading down to join the rest of the patrol.

* * *

Emrys is waiting for him when he returns.

His power roils through the chamber. Usually, his power feels cool, almost liquid, but now it feels like the heat that spills from an opened oven door, hot and dry; the flames of the candles burn high and blue. Mordred is sweating almost the moment he closes the door. The crossbar slams down into place of its own accord.

Emrys watches with gold-tinted eyes as Mordred hastily takes off his sword belt, then fumbles at his vambrace. Once he wriggles out of his maille, dropping it in a heap on the floor, Emrys catches him by the nape of the neck, pulling him upright and then pushing him back against the wall. The stone is a sudden shock of coolness against his back, countered by the solid heat of Emrys's body pressed up against his.

Mordred wraps his arms around the other man's neck, surrendering to the kiss. Emrys's tongue curls against his, sure and unhurried even as his hands make quick work of Mordred's laces. He arches off the wall eagerly, pressing his hips forward, but Emrys pulls away from him, bringing a whimper out of his throat.

"Bed," he instructs.

Always with the beds. Mordred will have to tempt him out to the Darkling Wood sometime, so they can have a tumble in a meadow instead of a muddy riverbank.

Still, he has no complaints. In the bed, Emrys proceeds to finish stripping them both down, and from there, he takes everything he'd been denied before Mordred left, in spades, until the candles blur and the room swims in his vision. When Emrys finally releases him, Mordred sprawls on his belly, arm dangling over the edge of the bed, feeling as limp and wrung-out as a dishrag, hot and sore and satisfied.

"It's a good thing I don't have to go to training tomorrow," he mumbles into the mattress. He doesn't even know where his pillows are. "I won't be able to walk, much less go through forms."

Emrys chuckles, the sound thick and husky, and drags his knuckles down the groove of Mordred's spine. His magic has settled, the chamber cooling. "You're not hurt, are you?"

"No." It only half a lie. He does hurt, but he's had worse, and this is a much better kind of ache. Even if he does end up stiff tomorrow, he'll remember this every time he stretches into it, and that makes it damn well worth it. And he can remember Emrys waiting in his chambers for him, eager and wanting, and imagine that perhaps he had actually missed Mordred.

Perhaps the thought is what makes him bold. Or the pleasure that has him feeling liquid in his own skin, unhinged at every joint. But either way, he pulls his arm up to brace his hand on the edge of the frame and turns himself over to look at the other man. "Why do you do this, Emrys?"

Emrys is quiet for a long moment, dark hair damp with sweat, sticking to his neck and temples. In the warm, tremulous light of the fire, the bones of his face are sharp and defined. Mordred isn't certain he'll answer at all, but then Emrys turns that deep, strange gaze to him, and the gold in his eyes gleams, far-off stars in a foreign sky. "Because I no longer care what happens if I do," he answers.

Mordred frowns, confused, but then Emrys kisses him, and it ceases to matter.

* * *

Mordred doesn't recall how he ends up back in his chambers. He remembers being in the Great Hall when Arthur made his declaration, but he doesn't quite remember what came after that. The castle seems to be shaking slightly around him, everything tipped off-kilter.

When a hand curls around his elbow, Mordred startles and looks up to see Emrys beside him, holding his arm and guiding him out of the corridor into his chambers. "Steady," the man murmurs, closing the door.

"Sorry," he replies vaguely, though he isn't quite certain what he's apologising for. Once Emrys releases his arm, he wanders a few steps into the chamber. Nothing has changed since he left them this morning, yet it is different. Everything is different. "I have to—we…we have to tell Arthur," Mordred says at last.

Emrys nods. "I know we do. We will."

He leans back against the wall, needing to brace himself against something solid, because the ground doesn't seem to be quite so firm beneath his feet anymore. A short barking laugh falls from him, and he holds both hands out; his fingers are trembling, fine tremors running through his arms. The castle isn't shaking, he is.

Strong hands curl around his fingers, squeezing tightly, and he looks up in surprise to see Emrys in front of him. When had he crossed the room? "Breathe, Mordred. Breathe."

"I'm trying." He grips Emrys's hands in return, holding just as hard. "How are you not…?"

"Ten years of practice. Here." Emrys brings Mordred's hands up, presses them to his chest. "With me. Breathe before you fall over."

Mordred curls his fingers into Emrys's tunic, feeling the deep, steady rise and fall of his chest, and he forces himself to match it. He remembers how many times he's pulled this same tunic off, how many times he's pressed his mouth to the skin underneath, traced the scars with lips and tongue. "We're free," he whispers. "Emrys…we're free."

"I know." Emrys brings his own hands up to frame Mordred's face, stepping closer to him. "We did it."

"We did it. We're free." The room blurs in his vision, prickling heat rising behind his eyes. Mordred slides his hands up to clutch at Emrys's shoulders, pulling him in. "We're free." It is all he can say, all he can think of. All the world is a shining, faceted haze, and he's shaking, and it feels like his ribs will break for how hard his heart is pounding. "We're free."

Mordred can taste salt when Emrys kisses him, sobs into his mouth and clutches at his shoulders to pull him closer, and then he's scrabbling at their clothes, shoving his hands up underneath to find bare skin. He needs to touch, to feel, to be anchored again, to know this is real and happening. There is no elegance to this, no grace, only the all-consuming need to be _alive_ and _together_ and _here._ Mordred doesn't know if he is weeping or laughing or both, only that both their faces are wet, but he doesn't taste salt anymore, only honey, and he can smell lavender in Emrys's hair, and he sees gold, nothing but gold, gold like the sun, gold like a crown, gold like the magic that is free again.

When Mordred wakes up, it is dark in his chambers, the true darkness which only truly comes before the pale light of dawn, and there is an arm draped over his waist, warm breath on his nape. Drowsily, he turns over, though he already knows who is going to be there. "Emrys," he murmurs, sitting halfway up to better look down at the man sleeping beside him, owner of the arm slung around him. They've never slept together. Emrys has always left afterwards. He's never slept in Mordred's presence. "Emrys…"

"If the sun isn't awake, you shouldn't be either." One arm comes up and curls around Mordred's chest, pulling him back down to the bed.

"I…you…" Mordred stops, not knowing what else to say. He isn't certain he should say anything at all. If he speaks, he might break whatever this is, the world rendered as delicate as a soap bubble, ready to burst and vanish in a shimmer. It is too much in too short a time, too much new and different and changed, and he stares up at the ceiling of his chambers, rendered a murky grey-black in the predawn, pulse in his mouth, entirely too aware of the arm resting across his chest. He feels…strange. Oddly light, hollowed out, and a distant corner of his mind wonders if he's perhaps in mild shock. It wouldn't be strange, considering all that has happened in the past day.

He can't help but startle when Emrys huffs against his neck, withdrawing his arm before levering himself up on an elbow to look down at Mordred; there is a small smile on his face, that secret little grin of his that only shows one of his dimples and none of his teeth. It isn't an expression he gives to much of anyone these days. "You are thinking far too much for this early in the morning, Mordred."

"Am I?" he asks, quick and short, like pulling a thorn from a palm.

The smile softens, and Emrys rests a hand on his chest. "You are," he replies, then lowers his head for a kiss. His mouth is soft and warm, slightly bitter from sleep, and there's a rasp of stubble that leaves Mordred's mouth faintly stinging when he pulls away. In the dull predawn light, his eyes are no one colour, blue and grey and black and violet, lit with subtle flecks of gold. "You are, Mordred."

Wings flutter in the pit of his belly, behind his ribs, a thrumming warmth. Suddenly, his mouth is dry, and he has to swallow three times before he can make himself speak. "Emrys…"

"Mordred." The hand resting on his chest moves slightly, fingertips dragging through the dark hair there, tracing the spirals of his triskele. "Stop thinking so much. Listen. Do you hear?"

He's not heard much of anything over the sound of his own pulse, but now he listens. For a moment, all he hears is their breathing, but then… "Birds," he murmurs. They're only just audible through his half-open window, but he can hear them, the soft warbling dawn matins chorused from their nests on the castle rooftops.

"Birds. It's the first day of the new age. Enjoy it." Emrys ducks his head and drops a brief kiss at the corner of Mordred's mouth, then the tip of his nose, unexpectedly playful. "And Mordred?"

"Yes?"

That small smile reappears, creases appearing in the corners of his eyes to match. "Call me Merlin."


End file.
